


sehnsucht

by feistycadavers



Category: Motionless in White (Band), Tim Sköld (Musician)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Emetophilia, Gift Fic, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 18:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: Chris looks at him, pale, sunken eyes. Tim’s no stranger to random stomach bugs from flying economy, especially considering all the times he’s flown back to Sweden over the years. It’s just that... Chris, looking so sickly on his bathroom floor tile, wide, dark eyes. He looks terrible. He lookshot.or, chris is sick. tim finds this arousing.





	sehnsucht

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bedfordfalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedfordfalls/gifts).



> first fic from my fic giveaway!! this one's for noah tumblr user jetsetlife.
> 
> so i'm not personally into emeto but it's not something i dislike enough to not write. this was a fun challenge for me!! and i love writing tim and chris so that's always a great time.
> 
> heed the tags; there's graphic descriptions of a character vomiting in here. 
> 
> title from the rammstein song. it's a german term for longing, yearning, craving.

Tim inwardly curses himself for being so goddamn polite. Offering to go outside of his own studio to smoke a damn cigarette. Not that Tim isn’t happy to have Chris back in LA - far from it. And without Ricky here, they’d have the studio to themselves. Tim’s not convinced they’ll be getting any work done. At least there was no need to sneak around.

 

Chris had arrived late last night - he’d had two layovers on the flight out from Pennsylvania, a state Tim had only really seen from stages or the bus windows. Chris speaks fondly of it. Tim had even driven to LAX from his place in the canyons outside of Studio City to pick him up, a favor anyone from SoCal would agree is virtuous. Especially when the flight comes in during peak night time traffic. Tim shudders at the thought, or the late morning breeze that comes up the hill over him. He sucks down the last of his cigarette, smashes it out in the rarely used ashtray he keeps out front, and lets himself back into the studio.

 

Chris isn’t in his chair at the console anymore. The half bathroom door is open, fluorescent light casting across the studio floor. Tim peeks in around the corner, sees Chris sitting on the floor next to the toilet, legs sprawled out, head tilted back against the wall.

 

“Sorry,” Chris says. “Think the flight made me sick.”

 

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . Chris looks at him, pale, sunken eyes. Tim’s no stranger to random stomach bugs from flying economy, especially considering all the times he’s flown back to Sweden over the years. It’s just that... Chris, looking so sickly on his bathroom floor tile, wide, dark eyes. He looks terrible. He looks  _ hot _ .

 

It’s one of those weird things Tim has never fully understood about himself. He figures it’s normal to be desensitized to people puking once you’ve been in multiple bands full of drunk idiots, including ones who would joyously barf on themselves for a joke - fucking Pogo - but Tim had sort of gotten too fond of it. He specifically remembers getting a weird boner while holding a trash bin for John to vomit into during a bout of food poisoning somewhere in Australia. It’d only been downhill from there.

 

“Uh, are you alright?” Tim asks. Chris’s stomach gurgles audibly.

 

“Yeah, just,” Chris sighs, pushing his hair back off his face, “fuckin’ shitty airport food, probably.” Tim steps over, places his hand on Chris’s forehead.

 

“No fever, just clammy,” Tim says. He brushes his fingers through Chris’s hair. He’s got makeup on, not yesterday’s. “You didn’t have to go and do your face for me, y’know.” Chris just grins.

 

“If you see me without eyebrows you’ll realize I’m just catfishing you and I’m actually secretly kinda ugly,” he remarks. Tim scoffs.

 

“You’d say the same if you saw me  _ with _ eyebrows,” he says. Chris actually laughs at that. “You need some water? I stocked the studio fridge with vanilla Coke for you,” Tim says. Chris leans into Tim’s legs, hugging them.

 

“That’s both the hottest and the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Chris says. “If I wasn’t feeling like I’m gonna puke I’d probably suck your dick right now just purely out of sheer joy that you’d do that.” Tim clenches his jaw a little at that.

 

“Yeah, I’ll take a rain check on that for now,” he says, resting his hand on Chris’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. Chris sighs, turns into Tim’s thigh, makes an unhappy noise into it.

 

“God, I feel like shit,” he mumbles. 

 

“Listen, Chris,” Tim says, because he really  _ should _ warn him ahead of time that if he  _ does _ puke he’s most likely to get a boner, and it’s most likely considered to be rude to get a boner because of someone else’s suffering or discomfort without their consent.

 

“Fuck,” Chris says, lurching over the toilet, and nope, there’s no time for Tim to explain. He reaches down to hold Chris’s hair back as he retches, coughs, but nothing comes up yet. Chris shudders and Tim kneels down on the floor next to him, hand reassuringly on his back, other still keeping the hair out of his face.

 

“You’re alright,” Tim says. “Go ahead. I’m here.” Chris moans weakly, fingers gripping the edge of the toilet seat. His body gives another heave and his stomach finally empties itself into the toilet, the sickening sound of vomit hitting water. Chris retches again, spitting out bile.

 

“I fucking hate puking,” he mumbles, and Tim swallows dryly. “Fuck, and Erin made us breakfast too. I feel bad.” Tim has to admit it’s weird to hear his boyfriend talk about his wife. He’s still getting used to that. Erin was a saint, though, always has been with all this.

 

“It’s okay, I know,” Tim says. He shifts a little closer, rubs Chris’s back. “Is it all up?”

 

“I don’t know,” Chris sighs. He sits back down again, leaning back against the wall, and the look on his face is infuriatingly hot. Glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, vomit and spit stringing from his lips. “This is fucking embarrassing,” Chris says. “I can’t believe I just puked in front of you.” Tim shakes the filthy thoughts from his head, rips off a wad of toilet paper to wipe Chris’s mouth.

 

“I’ve held the hair of a fair share of vomiting men in my days,” Tim says, feeling Chris’s forehead again. “I once witnessed - fuck, this must’ve been in ninety-eight, when KMFDM toured with Rammstein-”

 

“I love Rammstein,” Chris says quietly. “I’m so jealous.”

 

“Yeah, I know you do,” Tim remarks, smiling at that. “But I did once witness Paul Landers attempt to eat a piece of drywall, then later down half a bottle of whiskey and projectile vomit all over the venue bathroom. So I can handle looking after you feeling under the weather after taking three flights yesterday.”

 

“If you keep telling me good tour stories, you’ll cure me,” Chris says. Despite that, his face goes pale again, and he leans over to puke again, just liquid and bile this time, his body shuddering. Tim knees himself closer, holds Chris’s head in his hand. “D-do you,” Chris stutters, looking at Tim, “have a boner?”

 

Tim stops, looks down. His legs have somehow gotten all wound up with Chris’s and Chris’s thigh is up against his crotch, and yeah, Tim definitely has a boner.

 

“I, uh,” Tim says, reaching down to adjust it, because it  _ is _ sitting rather uncomfortably against his fly, “yeah. Sorry.”

 

“Oh,” Chris says. He reaches for it, but Tim grabs his wrist.

 

“Don’t, you’re sick,” Tim says. 

 

“Is that why you’re hard?” Chris asks.

 

“It’s, uh, kind of a long story,” Tim says, and Chris tries weakly to free his hand from Tim’s grip. “No, stop it, I’m not letting you get me off when you’re like this-”

 

“But you  _ like _ seeing me like this,” Chris says. He sneaks his other hand up, grabs him in his jeans. Tim’s breath catches.

 

“Chris,” he says.

 

“It’s okay,” Chris says.

 

“I can’t  _ help it _ ,” Tim sighs, putting his hand on Chris’s on his erection. “I don’t have a good excuse; I was going to tell you, but.”

 

“It’s okay,” Chris repeats, squeezing. “It’s not the grossest thing you’re into.”

 

“It’s pretty gross,” Tim admits.

 

“Yeah, but it kinda makes puking worth it if if gets you going,” Chris says. “You should fuck me.”

 

“What?” Tim asks, shocked Chris would even suggest it.

 

“Fuck me,” Chris says, grabbing the button fly of Tim’s pants and ripping it open.  _ Jesus _ . Tim hesitates, still.

 

“Here?” Tim asks. Chris’s eyes are dark, wanting. He nods. “I don’t know if we should-”

 

“I want you to,” Chris says. “ _ Please _ .” Goddamn Chris being so hard to say no to.

 

“Only if you’re sure,” Tim says, but Chris is already pulling Tim’s jeans down around his thighs, grabbing his cock a little too tight for it to feel good.

 

“Missed your dick,” Chris says, voice quiet. “Missed you.” Tim ducks down to kiss Chris’s forehead, still a bit clammy. 

 

“Missed you too,” Tim says, “but I need to get lube.” Chris lets go of Tim long enough to let him get up and hike his jeans back up enough he can actually walk back into the studio to go for the drawer he keeps stocked for times like this. Chris had asked him why he kept things like condoms and lube on hand in his studio and Tim had just explained that he didn’t want to have to trek back up to the house for them if he needed them, which seemed obvious enough, but Chris still seemed unconvinced. When he goes back to the bathroom, Chris has his own jeans down around his knees, waiting, bent over the toilet. He looks back at Tim.

 

“Hi,” Chris says. He still looks a bit sickly. He’s cute. Tim smiles.

 

“Hi,” Tim says, kneeling behind him, popping the cap on the lube bottle.  “You still up for it?”

 

“Hundred percent,” Chris says. Tim slicks lube over his ass, and Chris shudders at the touch. “Cold,” he says.

 

“Sorry,” Tim says, his other hand sliding under Chris’s shirt up his back. He eases a finger in and Chris grabs the toilet tank lid, whimpering. “Easy. You good?”

 

“Yeah,” Chris says, pushing back, “go ahead.” Tim works gently, slow, and Chris sort of meets him in the middle, urges him on. The second finger meets a little more resistance, so Tim adds more lube, which makes Chris jump a little.

 

“Fuck, sorry, cold lube is the worst,” Tim says, which makes Chris laugh once. By the time Tim has a third finger in and is working him open in earnest, Chris is making these soft little noises, urgent and needy. Tim curls his fingers into him and Chris finally lets a proper moan slip out.

 

“Tim,” he says, and Tim doesn’t need more convincing than that. He slides his fingers out and lays his cock against Chris, just dicking up against slick lube, and Chris purrs. “Fuck me,” he says, his voice quiet but firm, and Tim presses in, just letting Chris swallow up the first few inches. Tim sinks home, hilting himself, reaching down to grab onto Chris’s shoulder for a little leverage. 

 

“Good boy,” Tim purrs, thumbing the back of Chris’s neck, and he shivers. “Tight and perfect.”

 

“Please,” Chris chokes out, pushing back into Tim’s hips, and Tim moves, just enough, an easy pace. Chris moans, his fingers gripping the toilet seat. “Yeah, like that,” he says, looking back over his shoulder at Tim. Tim bites into his lip, pulling Chris back onto his cock just as much as he’s fucking into him. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes in the bathroom. Chris swears under his breath.

 

“C’mere,” Tim murmurs, pulling Chris upright a bit, burying his face between his shoulder blades, kissing down his spine.

 

“Oh fuck,” Chris says urgently. “I think I’m gonna puke again.” Tim distinctly feels that go  _ directly _ to his dick.

 

“Do you need me to stop?” Tim asks, starting to slow, but Chris shakes his head quickly.

 

“No, no,” Chris says. “Fuck me through it.”

 

(If Tim wasn’t already married, this is when he would consider proposing.)

 

“Yeah? Yeah, okay,” Tim says, quickening his pace, rougher, harder. Chris groans, somewhere between aroused and sick. Tim brings his hand around, in front of his mouth. “Can I?”

 

“Yeah,” Chris says, letting Tim slip his first two fingers into his mouth. Tim fists his other hand in the back of Chris’s shirt to keep him upright as he prods, presses at the back of Chris’s tongue. He gags horribly, shuddering, but doesn’t vomit yet. He makes a noise as if to indicate for Tim to try again, and he does, and Tim barely gets his hand out of Chris’s mouth in time for him to retch, puking, his body clenching, going tight around Tim’s cock.

 

“Fuck, good boy,  _ fuck _ ,” Tim moans, as Chris coughs, vomits again, even as Tim’s fucking him. “Get it all up, babe, you’re so fucking good--”

 

“Harder,” Chris gasps, bracing himself on the toilet tank, and Tim does, pounding into him, and Chris spits bile into the toilet.

 

“You take it so good, Chris,” Tim says, fingers in his hair, pulling Chris’s head up. Drool drips in ropes from his mouth.

 

“Can I touch my cock?” Chris asks, eyes half lidded.

 

“Yeah, of course, fuck; I want you to come on my cock,” Tim says, barely able to put the words in the right order before they come out. Chris reaches down and starts jerking himself off, moaning, his body shuddering violently again. He’s got tears streaking black down his cheeks, lips wet with puke and spit, eyes trained back over his shoulder, longing, watching Tim. Tim just fucks him, nails digging into his waist, shirt pushed up to expose tattooed back. “You look so fucking beautiful like that, fuck,” Tim murmurs, and Chris nods him on.

 

“Yeah, c’mon, come inside me,” Chris urges, pushing back, and Tim suddenly realizes he’s close, his orgasm coiling up in his guts, nearly there.

 

“Shit,” Tim hisses, hilting deep inside Chris as he comes, hits him hard, intense. He grits out a moan between his teeth, riding it out easy before going right back to it, trying to get Chris to follow him. It’s raw as fuck, just on the side of too much, but Chris comes too, shuddering wordlessly with a sharp moan. He spills onto the floor, and Tim stays inside him, wraps an arm around underneath him, the other hand reaching to flush the toilet.

 

“Tim,” Chris murmurs.

 

“I’m here,” Tim whispers, and Chris puts his hand on Tim’s on his side. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” Chris nods, and Tim eases himself out, helps pull Chris’s jeans back up a bit. Chris leans back into the wall, sits, looks up at Tim. Instead of being pale, his face is flushed, a sheen of sweat on him. “Alright, now you’ve gotta let me take care of you, okay?” Chris just laughs quietly, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

 

“You came pretty quick, then,” he remarks. Tim’s face burns.

 

“I’ve never fucked a really hot guy while he’s puking, okay,” Tim says quickly, hurriedly buttoning his jeans back up. “Not  _ my _ fault.” Chris just smirks.

 

“I’ll take one of those vanilla Cokes now,” he says.

 

“No way,” Tim says. “I’m getting you water and some medicine.” He stands up, and when he looks back down, Chris is pouting, pierced bottom lip stuck out at him. “Christ. Fine. But we’re going back to the house so you can lay down and I can look after you. We can talk about writing there.”

 

“Are you going to  _ cuddle _ me?” Chris asks, narrowing his eyes, grinning.

 

“God, you’re terrible,” Tim says, helping lift him off the floor. “Yes, I am.  _ Din jävel _ .”

 

“What did you just call me?” Chris asks. It’s not accusatory, nor angry.

 

“A fucker,” Tim says. He can’t reach to kiss Chris’s forehead with them both standing, so he kisses his shoulder.

 

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Chris says.


End file.
